


Ozone

by RedRobotWednesdays



Series: Sticky Fingers [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babies, Domestics, Drinking, Fluff, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, I like italics way too much, John is mad, M/M, POV John Watson, Pining, all my tags are just me having sarcastic conversations with myself, but it actually helps a bit, greg is unhelpful, having a domestic, i think we know john's least favourite animal, jeremy kyle, sherlock is being a child, that counts as a tag
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-16 15:56:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/863858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRobotWednesdays/pseuds/RedRobotWednesdays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson considers himself a tolerant man. Actually, scratch that; he lives with Sherlock Holmes. John Watson is a very tolerant man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ozone

**Author's Note:**

> So this took a different turn than I thought it would - and some stuff happened earlier on than I had originally planned but let's just go with it.
> 
> Second part of Hamsters are Volatile from John's POV - you could read either this one or HaV first it doesn't matter.
> 
> This ran longer than I anticipated so I split it in two. Part 2 up next week! :)

 

 

John Watson considered himself a tolerant man. Actually, scratch that; he lived with Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson was a very tolerant man.

But even he had his limits, his boiling point. And being left at crime scenes was very high on his 'Things I Don't Appreciate List'. He didn't mind that Sherlock had found the case boring; he was a genius, it was a struggle to find something that _wasn't_ boring to him. And even John had been hoping for a mystery that would take more than twenty minutes. That was the threshold for Sherlock when it came to cases and puzzles - twenty minutes; if a case took less than twenty minutes it was so pedestrian it wasn't worth his time and it was an embarrassement that Lestrade had to even call him out, more than twenty minutes just meant that Sherlock was being more brilliant than usual and he went home smug and superior.

But no matter how patient a person is, no matter how accomadating and accepting they are of insane flatmates, everyone has a line. And Sherlock had crossed over it when he'd walked out of the crime scene, leaving John behind. AGAIN.

 

John was fuming in the taxi ride back to 221B. The cabby glanced back once in the rearview mirror and, taking in his stormy expression, decided against friendly conversation. Sherlock had forgotten him, left without a second glance. Without a thought! And though John hated to admit it; it stung. Even the fifth time it stung, because world's only consulting detective could not even have taken three minutes to tap his friend on the shoulder where he had been standing with DI Hopkins and said "We're leaving." No. It was below the great Sherlock Holmes to be seen being considerate to his best friend (only friend - _according to him_ ).

So the doctor had been left, milling around the crime scene, looking for all the world like a lost dog ( _that_ had rankled). he was sure he heard a few snickers as he had had to be told by _Anderson_ , of all people, that the detective had already left. John had stalked out of the crime scene, face burning and hands clenched in fists.

And okay, it was still fine, all fine, he knew how Sherlock got sometimes and how annoyed he would have been at being called in on such a dull case. While he might have been too irritated to be sympathetic to him, he wouldn't be especially angry with him.

If there had been a distinct _lack_ of animal bits in his kitchen. As it happened there were animal bits in his kitchen and who could have been standing in the middle of it all but Sherlock Holmes. Looking suave and nonchalant with his sleeves rolled up and leaning against the sink.

And that seemed to be just enough for John; usually in these kinds of situations (the 'Sherlock has been a twat and he doesn't even realise it' situations) John's eyes will take in the scene, John's brain will assess, most of the time reject, and then John's legs will take him right back out of there.

At that moment though John was really quite pissed off.

So, after being dropped like a hot potatoe, looking bewildered and realising that the whole reason that he was at the bloody crime scene had gone off without him, and to top it all off while trying signal a taxi (apparently London cabbies only respond to dramatically flapping black coats and the infuriating men inside them) the bloody gale force wind had blown a wet newspaper directly into his face that had smelled distinctly of pee. John Watson was _really not in the mood for this shit_.

 

For a moment he just stood there, in the living room, looking through the sliding doors into their kitchen and Sherlock. He was breathing heavily and trying to be subtle about it, but it didn't matter because Sherlock wasn't paying attention to him anyway.

Like many times before this one, and certainly there will be instances in the future too, John will wonder why he doesn't just punch the man in the face (properly, not because he asked for it - though, really, he is _always_ asking for it) and be done with it. And then, after knocking Sherlock unconcious he could call up Lestrade for a pint at the local to celebrate. Of course, Greg might decide to come up to the flat to collect John, see Sherlock lying face-down on the kitchen tile, see the drying blood on the walls and get entirely the wrong idea. Although given the crap Sherlock had been spewing at Lestrade recently the DI might just help him hide the body.

John skipped the developing murder fantasy and settled for taking a deep breath through his nose and, wow; that smelled foul - whatever animal this had been he felt a little sorry for how it had come to its end - and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock didn't look up from where he was tapping away on his phone. he seemed completely indifferent to the fact that their kitchen had been (one) victim of a tiny massacre. Seriously what had happened? the entire flat reeked of ozone and a distinctly chemical scent.

Sherlock was still ignoring him so the doctor cleared his throat.

He still didn't look up but he did sniff and then frown;

"John, you smell like urine. Were you bothering Mrs Turner's beagle again?"

John decided to ignore that, at least Sherlock had noticed he was actually in the room.

"Sherlock," proud that his voice sounded so even and neutral he continued, "Explain. Now."

Fortunately Sherlock seemed to be able to read his mood despite his studiously blank expression; he glanced up from under his fringe at John, who really didn't think a man with such pale eyes should be able to make them so effectively 'puppy-like'. He wasn't buying the innocent act for a minute though and just raised an eyebrow. Sherlock looked at him for a long moment before glancing away and back again, guileless. John took another breath and said nothing. 'Steady, Watson. He knows he did something wrong, he'll get to it eventually.' The detective frowned, straightened up from the sink. He slipped his phone into his pocket, never looking away from John. He looked around again and - ah - there it was; he winced.

"Ah.. Now, John, you see -" he cut off when the other man raised his hand.

"On second thought; don't tell me, I just want to know two things; are you going to clean it up? And was it human?"

Sherlock huffed. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I would never waste human blood with such a simple experiment. This is - was, a hamster."

Right. Well. Silver lining.

This was one of those not-quite-rare-enough Not Good moments. John had something of a routine for these times, in this situation; first, explain to him the nonexistant merits of hamster experimentation and from there gently circle back to the familiar topic of 'It is Not Okay to leave John at crime scenes.'

Though of course this was Sherlock he was talking to; the man who could read his morning routines from the sleeves of his jumper and can track his thought processes as easily as breathing, And no matter what he said a small part of John will never fully believe that Sherlock can't actually read his mind.

"Don't be ridiculous, John," the man in question snorted. "I can't read your mind. It's not my fault you have unusually expressive face."

He retrieved his phone, clearly this conversation was over.

 

If John were anyone else he probably would have given up at this point, thrown his hands up into the air because trying to talk Sherlock when he was like this was like trying to break through a brick wall with a spoon. The plastic, disposable kind.

They would have turned away, resigned themselves to living with a deranged flatmate who didn't learn from his mistakes; 'okay, he doesn't understand that he was rude and inconsiderate time for tea.' But, John invaded Afghanistan. So he held firm. Which was exactly what Sherlock had not expected him to do. Which was why he expected it; because John was contrary and always did the opposite of what normal people did. So when Sherlock thought he would have walked away, he walked toward Sherlock and whipped the phone out of his hands. Sherlock gave a yelp of indignation and refexively reached after it. John held it away, with an elbow against his chest and his arm stretched out behind him, out of reach. An impressive feat for a man about 5 inches shorter.

"Look Sherlock - no! Listen! - I don't mind your experiments really, most of the time, but I resent the ones that explode and make our flat smell like a power plant. Especially since I'm the one who cleans them up."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes;

"When we first moved in I told you flatmates should know the worst about each other, you accepted me then. Has that changed?"

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes, as that implied good humour to Sherlock, and instead turned an exasperated expression on his flatmate.

"You told me that you played the violin and that sometimes you wouldn't talk for a few days, you never said anything about making our kitchen look like the set of a bloody Hitchcock film."

Sherlock blinked at him in such confusion that John felt a wave of amused fondness, and refused to smile.

"Look," he began, settling into his 'lecturer tone' - the one that made Sherlock sulk.

"All I'm saying is that if you going to run experiments on volatile hamsters, clean them up afterwards. Directly afterwards, Skerlock, _before_ the blood dries onto the walls. And maybe you could actually warn me first?"

"Warn you?" the detective scowled and stalked past John to the living room to stand by the window.

For a moment john thought he would pick up his violin and try to drown him out but he just put his hands on his hips and stared out through the glass.

"It's my flat too, why should I have to warn you?"

John sighed. "Because we're flatmates Sherlock, and it's the considerate thing to do."

He could practically hear the other man sneering. His waning temper snapped back in full.

"Maybe if you weren't so irresponsible and set in acting like a giant 5 year old you would know that and not - _not leave me behind at crime scenes!_ " Because if he were being honest; that was really what he was mad about.

Alright, hamster entrails are generally not what one looks forward to coming home to on a Sunday, but it was part and parcel of Sherlock Holmes, most of the time the good far outweighed the bad, but John really felt bitter about - he really, really did - being left behind; it made him feel useless and redundant. It reminded him uncomfortably of those first few months back home from Afghanistan; when he did nothing and he _was_ nothing. Sherlock had changed all that, and though John hated to think it; he had the power to change it back.

But of course Sherlock Holmes, being the incredibly observant but emotionally stunted genius he was; had failed to read between the lines to the root of the problem and instead seemed to be taking great offense from the 'Giant 5 year old' comment.

In fact he was now whirling abruptly around, away from the window, glaring at John. John blinked at him in surprise and opened his mouth, coming back to himself after his little internal reflection.

But before he could say a word the taller man had strode forward, snatched his phone back from John's hand where it was hanging by his side and made a bee-line for the door. Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf on the way, and then he was gone.

John gaped after him for a moment before moving to the spot the detective had previously occupied by the window.

He could see his friend's dark silhouette storming off into the distance. His flapping coat getting smaller as his long legs carried him away from Baker Street.

The doctor was so surprised at first, he didn't know what to do with himself, he faced the living room again; _Sherlock_ had stormed _out_. He had not thrown himself onto the couch to sulk, or slammed his bedroom door or played awful discordant notes on his violin as he was won't to do when he was angry/upset.

He had walked out.

"But... that's what I do," John said aloud. And then cringed at himself; now who sounds like a 5 year old.

Well, it didn't look like Sherlock was coming back anytime soon, John rolled up his sleeves and went to find the bleach.

 

++++++

 

Two hours later John was sitting in his armchair with his first cup of tea of the afternoon.

His anger wasn't gone, just smoldering a little in it's grate. If anyone saw him now they would say he was sulking. But John was _not_ sulking. He was _veteran_ for God's sakes. A doctor. A _grown man_.

Sherlock sulked of course, but then he was an exception to every rule society, and common sense, had ever established. He was an exception for John too; the catalyst that forced him to break every rule he had ever imposed upon himself; The 'No Breaking and Entering Rule', the 'Not Gay' Rule, the -. Whoa.

John shook himself and took a sip of soothing tea. Best not to get into that. He and Lestrade had talked about it enough when they had gone out for drinks last week. 'Emergency Alcohol Night' Lestrade had called it; apparently Anderson had backed out of leaving his wife again and Sally had thrown a strop and now they were in the middest of a catfight where they were forcing everyone in the office to take sides and driving Lestrade near to tears.

"It's like being in bloody Primary School again! Having fucking turf wars!"

"What kind of Primary School did you go to?" John had said mildly, sipping at a pint while Lestrade - Greg, off-duty - ordered hard alcohol and whined.

Somehow they had then got onto the subject of John's most recent girlfriend (ex-girlfriend) who Sherlock had managed to drive away by sneaking human thumbs into her coat pocket.

'But, John' he had whinged. 'I needed to put them somewhere, I haven't enough hands to carry all of them!' John might have laughed at the irony if he hadn't been so pissed off.

While he was complaining about meddling flatmates, he'd veered off into the topic of meddling flatmate's very distracting hair.

"It's just so..." Not quite drunk but pleasantly buzzed enough to be baring his soul John waved his arms theatrically. "..Fluffy." He finished.

And then mimed over his own head what was either a cloud or a gigantic afro.

Greg nodded along seriously and signalled for another whiskey.

 

After waxing poetic about stupid, tall detectives for another 40 minutes, the word 'gorgeous' might have accidentally slipped in there, Greg dropped his head onto the bar and groaned.

John blinked at him.

"Stop _pining_ , John. You're making me depressed. Well, more depressed."

John spluttered at him and turned his stool so he was fully facing Greg, where he leaned over the bar, hunched protectively around his glass.

"I am not pining!" The DI lifted his head and turned toward John. He put his hand his shoulder and looked him in the eye. He head swayed sympathetically.

"Listen mate, I have to tell you something, because you don't seem to have noticed. Now, you and Sherlock might be two of the closest people I have -"

"That's a bit said, Greg."

"Shut up. I'm pissed and I won't remember this tomorrow so don't mention it to me and _definitely_ don't mention it to Sherlock - I'm a police officer you know.. I can .. do things." Greg frowned. "Yes, well. Point is. I like you guys, lots, so -"

John grinned.

"I love you too, Greg," he chuckled.

"No. You love Sherlock," the older man replied.

"Well yeah, but you're alright too, Greg, and - wait." John stopped. Blinked. He abruptly got a lot more sober.

 _Love? Love Sherlock? He loved Sherlock. Did he love Sherlock? Oh my God, **he loved Sherlock**_. He gazed fearfully at the DI.

"I love Sherlock."

Greg rolled his eyes and turned back to his drink.

..

....

.....

_Shit._


	2. Bleach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a choice between Jeremy Kyle and Sherlock.
> 
> And that's no choice at all is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Got it up on time. Didn't think I would there when I thought yesterday was Thursday.  
> This one seemed kind of silly to me idk   
> how do you make links in the notes?
> 
> Unbetaed, if you see any mistakes let me know!

John, despite his revelation - and the following minor panic attack - was determined nothing would change between himself and Sherlock and had consciously strived to carry on as normal for the past week.

He refused to wallow.

Surprisingly enough the thoughts that had followed the little epiphany hadn't been immediately of regret or denial (I'm not gay!), but relief. And happiness. Of course the doctor had realised about 5 minutes later that he could never act on these feelings because Sherlock would not (could not) feel the same way.

If he knew he would probably ask John to move out right off the bat. And even if he didn't, having the feelings out there in the open would create a horrible, awkward tension between them which would jeopardise their working partnership. Which would in turn jeopardise the Work and _then_ Sherlock would ask him to move out.

And John, well, he couldn't even imagine going back to the Before Sherlock time.

Much as he valued his independence, much as he had hated his cane for taking it away from him, it seemed he had replaced one dependency with another. A similar dependency working in an opposite direction; John's cane - slowing him, weighing him down, dragging at his steps. Sherlock - pulling, tugging, violently yanking him forwards into the future.

John knew he could never give that (him) up.

There was no romantic future for him and Sherlock, he understood, the man had told him as much from the get-go. But it was better to pine quietly beside him and still _be_ beside him, than be pining from afar and not being near him, not able to _protect_ the idiot..

 

+++++++++

 

_All right, all right. Enough of this now. You've known about your feelings for a week now it's time to get this under control. Sherlock is an idiot but he's not stupid, he'll notice something eventually, don't speed up the process._

John blinked himself out of his reverie and then looked mournfully down at his mug, nearly full and long since grown cold. He heaved himself out of the armchair with a weary sigh and went to make a fresh cup.

The kitchen was clean again - as clean as it ever is - though the whole flat stank of bleach.

Standing by the kettle, where the worst of it had been, made John's eyes water and he moved back through the living room to open the windows.

His phone beeped from the dining table. He retrieved it.

 

_**Are you still mad? SH** _

 

John blew out a breath from between pursed lips and deliberated.

Truthfully? No. His contemplation had felt much like a nap and he'd gotten up feeling refreshed. He wasn't even especially irritated any more, but it might do Sherlock some good to not get his way for once. Let him stew for a while.

John texted back an affirmative. Unsigned, because Sherlock didn't deserve 'playful John' right now.

When a reply wasn't immediate John assumed the detective was sulking and went to finish making his tea.

He had just settled down and flicked on the telly when his phone beeped again.

 

_**When are you going to admit you over-reacted and get over it? SH** _

 

Oh. "Prat," John muttered to himself.

Had he really just said that? That _John_ was the dramatic one when Sherlock's response to being asked to clean up _his own mess_ was to storm out of the flat and disappear for three hours.

Okay. Okay, maybe John had over-reacted a _little_.

But he wasn't allowed to say that! Only John was allowed say John over-reacted.

John clicked his tongue and slowly typed out a response. Proud that he had been able to hold back any expletives he sent it;

 

**_There wouldn't be anything to react to if you could scrape your own guts off the walls you know. It was a hamster Sherlock, they're not that big._ **

 

He didn't bother putting his phone down and just held it in his lap until it buzzed again.

 

_**Then why are you so mad? SH** _

  
  


(Lord give me strength) That was just typical.

 

_**Piss off. It wasn't MY hamster** _

 

No reply.

John settled down to watch some Jeremy Kyle USA. _There_ were some people with real problems.

Jaquelle was just about to reveal the real father of her baby when Sherlock interrupted.

 

_**Murder from Lestrade. Missing fingers. No. Anderson. SH** _

 

John's lips twitched up despite himself. He could see Sherlock's features lighting with glee now. No Anderson? Definitely Christmas.

But no. He wasn't going.

Admittedly, this did sound like a good one but, for once, John was going to deny Sherlock (deny himself Sherlock). He was annoyed still, a little, he needed some space for awhile...

Well, not really. But he was going to get an apology out of Sherlock, he would sit through the entire series 8 rerun of Jeremy Kyle to do it if he had to.

 

_**Sherlock, i've just finished scrubbing hamster blood off the kitchen floor. you don't really expect me to come running do you.** _

 

When Sherlock's name lit up on his screen again John turned down the volume on the telly and took a fortifying sip of tea; this ought to be good.

 

_**I apologise for the hamster, John. As compensation for your traumatic cleaning experience I will remove the ear lobes from the toaster and dispose of the experiment I left under your bed. SH** _

 

John choked on his tea.

 

_**That's what the smell was?! What the fu - I made toast this morning Sherlock!!!** _

 

John went to the kitchen and lifted the toaster. Shook it. Ah yes - There was the distinct rattle of rigor mortis and the wafting scent of burning flesh. How had he missed it. John groaned and covered his eyes with a hand. He kind of wanted to laugh, a little bit to cry.

When the next message came in he looked at his phone warily; it was an address from Lestrade, somewhere in Kent.

John looked at it. Mused. Of course, he have to ponder it long; it was the choice of going somewhere with Sherlock and watch him being brilliant - it would be possibly dangerous, most likely insane, definitely fun. Or staying here, by himself, and watching Jaquelle's two 'boyfriends' punch each other over the girl who couldn't remember which one of them she'd slept with first.

No choice at all really.

"What a git," he muttered to himself.

 

_**You're a git**_ , he texted.

 

_**Yes, see you in ten minutes?SH** _

 

John rolled his eyes, allowed himself to smile fondly because there was no one there to see it and went to get his coat.

 

_**Fine. JW** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I drank three sangrias last night which was three more than I should have I'm just glad this is over.

**Author's Note:**

> I seem to have some sort of fixation on parts of the hands being cut off and that makes me sound creepy.
> 
>  
> 
> Also now I just really want a John & Lestrade Serial killers/Bonny and Clyde type au. That is all.


End file.
